Scars
by DancingInTheDark85
Summary: Jorah and Missandei find they need each other to lean on in the immediate aftermath of the fighting pits. Jorah is fighting some personal demons which have left some very deep marks on his body and soul and Missandei tries to help. This is a friendship story.


The usual disclaimer applies, I don't own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire, I'm just borrowing and no money is being made.

If you like it let me know.

* * *

Jorah looked up and squinted into the sun. The dark shadow of Drogon swept over the sky as he breathed another flame over the last of the Sons of the Harpy and then flapped his wings and whisked the Mother of Dragons away.

Jorah breathed a sigh of relief, knowing the love of his life was safe from harm. He glanced over at the others, Daario, Missandei, the dwarf who looked stricken with a mixture of awe and fear. They all looked on concerned but Jorah had known the dragons since their birth, Dany had even teased him about being their uncle once, in a happier time. He knew that the dragons, fierce as they were would never harm their mother. She would be safer with Drogon than she would have been since they entered this cursed city.

He turned back to the crowds, the piles of charred bodies, the dead that had been slain by his own hand. The threat was gone, all that was left was the frightened common folk rushing for the exit. Jorah coughed and spat blood onto the dusty arena floor. His head spun and he felt dizzy. The hit to his face had dislodged a back tooth and caused numbness in his jaw and cheek. It was likely already beginning to swell. He wished some other parts of him were numb, his chest pained him, the familiar feeling of cracked ribs straining under his leather armour, the burning sensation from the numerous gashes and cuts slicing through skin and muscle. But there was something else, the fever and headaches that he'd been holding at bay for weeks, the pain that was emanating from the rash on his left arm. He looked back at the others. Missandei gave him a warm smile and he tried to return it but suddenly the world spun and he was slipping towards the floor. He saw the sudden concern in Missandei's expression as she rushed towards him and heard the dwarf shout "Jorah!", before he landed heavily in the sand and his vision faded. He fought back the feeling as he felt Missandei kneel by his head. He gazed up into her dark soulful eyes and she stroked his sweat-slicked hair back from his forehead.

"You're hurt." She said softly.

"I'll be alright." Jorah promised. He tried to get up but his head span and he laid it back down. Missandei slipped forward so that his head was cushioned by her slim knees. "I just need a minute." He assured her.

"My lady has missed you." She whispered so Daario couldn't hear.

"You've always been too sweet for this life." Jorah told her. "But I have seen the way Daenerys has looked at me. I do not believe that missing me will be enough."

"Then why did you come back?" She asked.

"Because I promised I would die for her." He shrugged. "It felt like the right thing to do at the time."

"It was, you saved her life. Whatever happens, I will be forever grateful."

Jorah nodded, pushed himself to his feet and staggered but stood tall. Missandei wrapped an arm around his strong waist and supported the older warrior. Jorah nearly refused her help but he realised that the young woman was trembling from the ordeal, despite the brave face she had put on. So instead he slung his arm across her shoulders and allowed the young woman's help, knowing that they would be keeping each other steady. "Are you hurt?" He asked softly.

"No," Missandei said shakily, the usual calm she had had in her voice until now gone at being asked about her welfare. "No, I'm fine." She assured him. Daenerys had always done the same, Jorah mused, she'd remain strong and stoic until Jorah would ask if she was okay, then it was like the opening of the floodgates and she would be unable to hold back the tears. How many times during the early days of their travels had he held her to him while she cried on his shoulder? She'd stopped doing that a long time ago now, stopped needing him to help her be strong. But if Missandei needed it now he was not going to begrudge her. He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze of reassurance, and wondered if anyone had ever held the young former slave in such a gentle way.

"We need to get out of here." He growled to the others in the group.

"Yes," Tyrion said in his usual abrupt manner. "I think that is one of your better ideas Mormont. Lead the way."

Daario nodded. "Follow me." He suggested and ran down a tunnel leading away from the exits where the rest of the spectators were trampling over themselves to get out, and down to the holding areas where the fighters were kept. Daario knew the pits well, and he sent them into a weaving maze of tunnels used by those who arranged the fights. As they jogged passed the bench where Jorah had sat waiting for his death, the shackles clinking as Tyrion stumbled over them in his haste, Jorah felt truly sick. He ignored the feeling but Missandei, arm still wrapped around him, noticed the twitch of extra tension in his muscles and gave him a look of concern. He realised that as he tensed, her arm had shifted position ever so slightly and that now her delicate fingertips had found a rent that had been gouged from his leather armour. Thankfully the armour, though damaged had done it's job and upon this occasion he's avoided yet another wound. However, instead it had exposed a thick cord of scar tissue, barely healed, that ran from his right hip across his back to just below his left shoulder. It was one of the nastier scars and he knew his thin, sweat-soaked shirt would do nothing to hide it.

He'd expected Missandei to pull away from it in disgust, at its ugliness and for what it stood for, brave knight reduced to a whipping boy. But instead she actually caressed it, just ever so slightly, and he found her light touch to ease the pain of it somewhat. Of course she would understand, he realised numbly, she had been a slave, and what slave didn't know pain? She wore enough revealing dresses to know that she had likely never been whipped, but what other horrors had she been forced to endure? And she loved a man who'd taken the worst wound a man can imagine, and when he had just been a boy. He smiled when he thought of the sweet girl beside him and the stoic young commander of the Unsullied. They'd both hidden their feelings well, but he'd noticed right from the start that the only thing that could distract Grey Worm from his work was her presence. His eyes would flit up to her for a moment before he recovered his brief lapse in concentration and pretended he'd never noticed her. It was barely imperceptible at first, except to a man such as Jorah who knew the torment of his own unrequited love. Missandei had been harder to read, he'd spent less time with her and she spoke to everyone with the same care and gentleness, but he had been sure before he'd left, that the feelings between them had become mutual.

He'd expected Grey Worm here, and his absence concerned him. He was almost too scared to ask, as Missandei's tiny body was still shaking beneath his arm and he knew that whatever the answer it was likely to upset the girl further. "Where's Grey Worm?" He whispered gently, thinking suddenly that if he didn't ask it would look like he didn't care.

"At the palace." She replied. "He sustained a grave injury fighting the Sons of the Harpy."

Jorah's heart rose and fell one after the other. How 'grave' is 'grave' he wondered. "He is strong Missandei." He offered instead.

She nodded. "He is. He is passed the worst of it and the healers expect him to recover now." Jorah was relieved, but noted the use of the word 'now'. He wondered how many nights the poor girl had sat beside his bedside willing him to heal. It brought his thoughts back to Daenerys, would she sit by his beside once this fever finally took hold and he lay dying? Or would he die locked in a dungeon, or fed to her dragons? He didn't intend to die in any of those ways. In the midst of one of their many arguments, he had once promised his father that he would die with a sword in his hand, and he meant to do just that.

"I'm glad." He told the young girl. "Has he told you he loves you yet?" He couldn't help but ask.

She didn't answer but a rush of blood came unbidden to her cheeks and a sweet smile spread across her lips.

"I'm glad for that too." Jorah smiled too, though the pain made it more of a grimace.

"Shit!" Jorah heard the dwarf curse up ahead. They'd been running through a series of tunnels that had lead out through an old wooden door, thankfully left unlocked, and out into an alleyway. It took Jorah a moment to recognise it at first, it was not an area of the city with which he was familiar, however he soon noticed a wooden board swinging from a courtyard arch that gave him a clue. Never one for subtlety, the wood was carved with a ladies thighs spread wide apart to expose what was between them. 'I bet Daario knows this part of the city,' he thought spitefully to himself. But they weren't given enough time for him to find out. The dwarf had cursed, not because of the lurid decorations but because of the five men in masks that approached them.

The men all wore the yellow flowing robes of Meereen, their faces obscured with gold masks. Jorah was more concerned about the large curved blades they each had in their hands.

"Get behind me." He said to Missandei, and less than gently in his haste, shoved her out of the way into the brothel doorway before drawing his sword.

He hurt, he'd lost blood and had muscle ripped in two, and was battling a fever that some day soon would kill him, but none of that mattered now as he brought himself up level with Daario, sword held ready to attack. Tyrion stood between them, a blade of his own in his hand, though it was more of a long dagger than a sword, he held it steadier than Jorah would have expected.

"Protect Missandei." Jorah ordered, and for once the dwarf didn't argue. He stepped back a couple of spaces, dagger still at the ready, so that he defended the young girl instead.

Daario grinned at Jorah, he still had blood congealing on his blade from the attack at the fighting pits and yet his thirst for blood seemed boundless. He looked about to say something but that was when the first man charged.

The first man had obviously sized them up and picked the weaker target, heading straight for Jorah, the other men just half a heartbeat behind. As he got to the knight, sword raised in both hands, Jorah calmly side-stepped him and then swung his sword round in a backhanded arc, catching the assailant across the ribs. The sword buried deep into the man's ribs and he howled in agony, collapsing to his knees. Jorah wrenched his sword from where it was caught on the bone, just in time to parry the next man's blow. There was a clash of steel, loud enough to cause ears to ring, but it was a sound that Jorah knew too well and paid it no mind.

The second attacker was stronger, better trained in combat, he kept hacking and slashing, with such speed that Jorah struggled to parry and could not find his moment to switch from defence to attack. The man carried on pressing forward which caused Jorah to be backed into the alley wall. He used it to his advantage and pressing his back against the stone for support drew up his leg and kicked the man away, just as his sword deflected another blow. The man staggered back and Jorah used the opportunity to take a big swing, taking the man's head off clean at his shoulders.

Jorah moved to face his next attacker before realising that the others were dead. Daario was stood amongst the three other bodies, cleaning his blade on a piece of tunic ripped from one of them, and Tyrion was struggling to pull his blade out from the skull of the man that Jorah had felled but not finished.

He'd expected a sarcastic comment from Daario about his advancing years and creaking bones, the two of them had become highly competitive and although Jorah would tell anyone that he thought their competition was childish and unnecessary, once he'd realised that Daario was keeping score, he'd secretly started counting too.

There was no snide comment though, there was no comment at all. Daario just started jogging lightly in the direction of the palace, pausing once he was partway down the alley to confirm the rest of the ragtag band were following him. Jorah let Missandei and Tyrion follow on, also at a jog, and then made sure he brought up the rear, glancing behind him continuously as the group ran through the streets, Daario taking them through the maze that was downtown Meereen.

It took about twenty minutes before they reached streets that Jorah started to recognise, and a further ten before they got to the palace. By that time all the adrenaline had drained from his body again and he was stumbling, struggling to keep up with the others but refusing to slow the pace.

They avoided the main square and Daario guided them round to the service entrance. As they got towards the wooden door there was a shout from down the street and Jorah turned to see more masked men rushing at them. The servant's door was another fifty metres away.

"Run!" Jorah screamed at the rest of the group. Without question the three ahead of him broke out into a sprint. Daario reached the door first and wrenched it open. Jorah half expected him to duck inside and pull it shut behind him but he didn't, he turned and beckoned the others who were struggling along behind him. Missandei was next to reach it, her lithe form was built for speed but her clothing was not, she'd had to hitch up her skirts to keep herself from getting tangled, her sandals slapping against the sand. Tyrion was struggling, his little legs were not built for speed at all and he waddled forward as quickly as he could. An arrow whipped passed Jorah's head and landed just inches from the dwarfs feet. Jorah broke into a sprint and caught up to him, grabbing at his collar and physically dragging the Lannister along. More arrows flew passed them and one glanced off Tyrion's leg but to his credit it didn't slow him.

"Come on!" Daario was shouting, Missandei already having disappeared through the darkened entrance. He threw a throwing knife from his tunic and flicked it in the direction of their attackers. Jorah didn't look to see if he had made his mark and just kept pushing forward, Tyrion stumbling alongside him and he tried to stay on his feet.

They reached the door and Jorah practically threw Tyrion through it, before turning to Daario. Together the two men pushed the heavy door shut and slid the iron bolts and bars across. The door was wooden on the outer side but lead-lined on the inside, if their attackers meant to get in, it would not be there. Jorah leaned back against the door to catch his breath but the rest was short lived.

"We need to secure the rest of the palace." Daario suggested.

Jorah nodded wearily and pushed himself away from the door, his work was not done yet.

* * *

Missandei was sat on the edge of Grey Worm's bed as she finished telling the young commander what had happened. He'd almost leapt out of bed when she first told him that they had been attacked, but he was still so weakened that she managed to push him back down into the sheets with just one hand. It had been about an hours since they had made it back to the palace and they'd used that time to bar all the doors. They were as safe as they could be, Daario had promised. Jorah had been anxious to discuss what they did next but Tyrion had insisted that they take an hour to catch their breath and reconvene later, and he'd waddled off in search of the wine stores.

Missandei's first thought had been Grey Worm. She refused to say as much but she really had thought she would die, and the thought of not seeing him again had been too much to bear. She needed to see him again just to confirm to herself that they really were still on this earth.

She finished her telling and sat on the bed, holding onto Grey Worm's hand, trying not to cry with the fear and stress of everything that had happened, when she heard something clatter in the room next door and a familiar gruff voice cursing in the common tongue.

"I'll be right back." She promised Grey Worm and kissed him on the forehead as she left the room. As she walked into the next room she felt a pang of pity at the sight before her. Pity was not an emotion for slaves, she had been told a thousand times, by masters and other slaves alike. Slaves should not feel pity, for their own situation should always be first and foremost in their hearts if they had any intention to survive. But she pitied Jorah, she always had. She could see how much he yearned for her queen, he knew the futility of it and yet still he worshipped her, even though she had sent him away. Missandei knew the reasons why her queen had done such a thing, and yet she still wasn't sure how she'd been able to bear it.

Jorah was sat on a bed that he'd strewn with bandages and bottles of ointment. He had his shirt off and she could see just what had been written over his muscular back. The lashes had been many, they created a lattice of welts that had ripped open his sun-leathered skin, some thick and white and healed, others still red and raw, a few still fresh, bleeding anew at the recent trauma he had subjected his body to. There were other marks there too, older war wounds but somehow they meant little compared to the mutilations of his capture.

The curse had been because he had knocked a metal water bowl over, spilling its contents onto the bed linen and the stone floor before skittering across the room. He was staring at the bowl as though he was summoning the energy to bend down to pick it up. She stepped forward into the infirmary room, "Let me get it." She offered.

Jorah clearly hadn't realised that she'd been there and sudden realisation of her presence made him jump. He leapt to his feet and turned around, shielding his back from her gaze. "It's fine." He said hastily, "I can manage." He had wounds on his chest too, the slice of a blade across his ribs, a deep laceration at his elbow and his breeches were soaked in blood. But these wounds were from fighting, these wounds did not bring him the same shame, she realised. He'd already managed to bandage his left forearm, the fresh white linen standing out against his tanned, sweat-stained and filthy body.

Missandei just smiled at him and came forward anyway, reaching down and picking the bowl up off the floor. "The healers have just changed Grey Worm's dressings, they will have some hot water left. Wait there."

She went and found the healers and sure enough they still had a fire going in their apothecary. She returned a few minutes later with the bowl full of steaming water and a healer in tow to find that Jorah had put his shirt back on. The healer was a dusky-skinned woman of middle-age, a thick oiled braid draped down her back, a branding on the side of her face denoting her as having once been a sex slave.

"This is Kara." Missandei introduced, "Before being taken into slavery she was a Dothraki healer. Once in Meereen she made a name for herself treating the women of the pleasure houses and was given the opportunity to study under a Westerosi Maester. She is one of our best healers."

Jorah frowned, "I don't need a healer." He said and eyed her suspiciously.

Missandei frowned at him as she set the bowl down on the table beside the bed and dipped a cloth in it, starting on the cut on his arm, holding him at the wrist as she worked the cloth into the cut to clean out the sand and the grit that had collected in it. "I have known you a long time now Ser Jorah and you have always been stubborn but you have never been a stupid man." Missandei said. "Come, your wounds are nothing to be ashamed of." She said as she lifted his shirt and pulled it from his body.

Jorah frowned at her, "Since when have you been so forward Missandei?"

"I'm sorry," Missandei said suddenly, hanging her head. It had been too forward, what had she been thinking, he was a knight after all and she just a former slave.

"Don't be." Jorah smiled. "It suits you."

"These wounds will need sowing." Kara the healer confirmed, looking at his arm and leg through the hole the knife had left behind. She moved around the bed and took a look at his back. He visibly flinched under her scrutiny.

"Why are those scars so much worse for you than others?" Missandei asked. She knew why but needed to draw him into the conversation. He had to admit it.

He shrugged, "My others are from fighting battles, they are signs of my strength. These are a sign of my weakness. They're ugly and unsightly and come with no tales of valour attached, just a reminder of how far I have fallen."

"But I know you Ser Jorah, you have never seen Grey Worm or I or any of The Unsullied as less worthy because we have been slaves. Why do you see yourself as such?" Missandei asked.

When Jorah did not answer she pressed on. "Daenerys has never seen us as less worthy either. Do not fear, she will not treat you any different. Each of us has been a slave and our freedoms have been hard won." He didn't say anything to that but just looked at Missandei with a grim expression. She fell into silence and helped the healer clean and dress the remaining wounds. Kara asked to see the one on the knight's left forearm that he had already bandaged, but he snatched it away and assured her it was fine.

Once the healer had gone Missandei handed the man back his filthy shirt and watched while he pulled it over his head. "You need rest." She told him.

"When I find her and beg for her forgiveness." He replied, standing up from the bed. She saw him gripping the edge of it to steady himself while he fought light-headedness.

"You need to take better care of yourself. Our queen would not want you to arrive at her feet half dead." She said with a smile.

"Think that will be the way of things no matter what I do." Jorah muttered

Missandei frowned. "Your left arm. Why would you not show Kara?"

"It's nothing." He said hastily, strapping his leather vambraces back over his forearms, which covered the bandage further.

Missandei was unconvinced. "If it's something she could help with you must let her."

"It's not." He said. "Come, let's go speak with the others about what happens next, before Tyrion has the time to get totally drunk."

Jorah strode off down the hall not waiting to see if Missandei followed. She watched him go, limping slightly, shoulders hunched in pain, but with an air of determination that she'd never seen in anyone else. She thought of the terrible scars on his back and wondered what else the man before her would have to endure for love.


End file.
